


Okay, This is Epic.

by health



Category: Ben Shapiro - Fandom, Jordan Peterson, Political RPF, Political RPF - Canadian 21st c., Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, BDSM, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon Trans Character, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Foot Fetish, Footsies, Lawyers, M/M, MAGA, Pegging, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Shameless Smut, Smut, Therapy, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, cum dungeon, poopsocks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-12-25 11:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18260783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/health/pseuds/health
Summary: Jordan Peterson needs respite from his newly-filed divorce, and Ben Shapiro needs psychological help and acceptance...will either be able to provide? (EPIC LIBERAL PWNAGE COMPILATION #69: GAY VERSION)





	1. The Epic Meeting

The scent of freshly brewed, bitter Americano wafted through out the establishment Jordan Peterson currently occupied a quaint Cafe- he believed it was called “The South Will Raisin Again”- sat between the window and the uncomfortable, ill-cushioned chair his plush rear was seated upon. Despite the noisy atmosphere of the coffee shop (potentially increased due to the number of SJW protesters outside, screaming with their high-pitched, stereotypical voices. Jordan had difficulty making out whether they were protesting his presence, or the presence of several confederate-themed pastries and drinks on the menu. Ah well, either way they were suppressing his freedom of speech, and he wouldn’t spare a single glance in their direction) having yet to order, he was investing a minute or two into reading only the finest of novels, particularly of the philosophical variety, hoping to up his dwindling IQ by a few points. He looked to the two books inhabiting his corner of the table, directing his attention to the startling red-and-gold cover of a particularly controversial 200-year-old radical leftist, virtue signalling, murder-inducing, piece of literature. Topped off with a hammer and sickle, of course. 

Picking up his copy of The Communist Manifesto with expert attention, he symbolically slam dunked the red-covered, Koolaid(™) stained overrated listicle into the trash bin incidentally occupying the space right to the wooden legs of his chair, absolutely worth the $3 and .99 cents spent an hour or two ago in the nearest Half Price Books. Jordan was absolute in his conviction that he must’ve looked cool as fuck in the process of destroying the phantasm of Cultural Marxism, hoping a patron or two of the establishment had noticed his incredibly epic moment. No one spared a glance. He pouted. What was underneath the recently disposed pinko garbage, however, was the true treasure: Dangerous by Milo Yimyampeeapolis, another delightful purchase from Infowars.com. Flipping through the pages, Jordan found himself taking in...very little information, the only thing standing out being the usage of slurs every other word. However, a distraction was a distraction, and that was exactly what he needed. 

A distraction, of course, from one of the greatest tragedies of his short, sad little life. The real reason he found himself in a Confederate-themed Cafe, far away from Canada (Or, rather, a border away), and with a stack of paperwork scattered about. However, this was no normal paperwork, it was divorce papers. The radical leftists had taken the most important thing away from him, his wife. He knew he should have done something earlier, sooner before this could’ve ever happened. First, his wife learned what “feminism” meant, and in what seemed like no time was reading Judith Butler and saying gender was a social construct. No more than a month ago, he found out that she was more interested in a man by the name of Mr. Carlos Marcus, and no betrayal had hit him deeper than that. Being cucked by a college-attending, Liberal Arts degree-having, Post modernist, Neo-marxist, surprisingly ripped man was the last thing he had expected and, frankly, the most terrifying possible outcome. Merely acknowledging the fact made him put his head in his hands, shaking. 

In this moment, in his stupor he found the noises of the SJW protestors- the screaming, the yelling, the violence- to be too much, he couldn’t help but contemplate why in the world he chose a window table as every sign and scream of the evil nature of white, cis, straight men brought him closer to insanity, his hands shaking steadily as he covered his face as the triggered screams got louder, and louder, until-

“Hey, you hear those special snowflakes out there, where’s the facts and logic in yelling at people until they agree with you?” Came a voice, strangely familiar in it’s intonation and oddly obnoxious yet alluring in quality…could it be?

It was. 

He heard, not saw, the sound of Ben Shapiro sliding smoothly into the other side of the booth. Jordan allowed himself to remove his sweaty palms from his face and take in the image of the man before him, seeing him in his classic smug debate stance, hands in front of him, his face doing something oddly reminiscent of every Dreamworks face. He couldn’t tell how that made him feel, except for the odd feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach. 

“I’d get a headache if I was listening to those liberals whining for hours on end too, you know.” Oh, good. Apparently he interpreted his near-breakdown as a reaction to a liberal-induced migraine. That made things a whole lot less embarrassing. 

Jordan’s voice started up smoothly, yet with an air of hesitance, “You hate liberals too? I…” He trailed off with an uncertainty underlining his voice, a trait not often seen within himself, “I thought I was the only one.” The corners of Ben’s lips quirked into a smirk.

“Far from it, actually. There is an entire community of us.” Came Ben’s nasally reply. Jordan’s breath hitched as he felt something bump against his epic sock-sandal combo. He concluded that it had to have been an accident, as Ben continued his line of thought without hesitation, “We may be small in number, at least compared to the liberal population,” The enlightened man sitting across Jordan spat the word “liberal” like it was a disease. Jordan felt something against his feet again, this time more insistent. He quickly realized what he was feeling was bare toesie-woesies trying to slide off his shitty foam sandals. His heart rate sped up, but he did not try to stop Ben. “Think of it as a counterculture movement. The silenced, the scorned rising up to fight against the oppressive politically correct cultural marxism.” Came Ben’s voice once again, at as much of a purr a voice that high and nasally could muster. It drove Jordan absolutely bonkers that Ben’s face refused to indicate any acknowledgement of what was happening just under the cheap wooden table. At this point, Ben had succeeded in removing Jordan’s sandals and was now working on his sweaty socks. Jordan’s hands had a vice grip on the edge of the table, he could feel his scrotum tightening with delight. He couldn’t remember the last time his wi— ex-wife made him feel like this.

He realized sheepishly that Ben was still staring at him, expression fixed in that classic Dreamworks Face. Ben was expecting some kind of response while Jordan was about two toe-strokes away from bursting his gogurt in his pants like a teenager. Jordan drew a shaky breath, trying to compose himself enough to say something worthy of Ben’s manlet ears. He opened his mouth, but what the two men heard was not his own voice.

“Are y’all gonna order something or what?” Piped the sole barista in the establishment. She was leaning over the counter with an unamused and positively bored stare. Even Ben seemed somewhat startled by this, but he could not let himself be cucked by the blonde barista now thrumming her fingers against the pristine counter, which bore the colors of the American flag like any fine establishment ought to. Ben Shapiro smirked (He physically cannot smile like a normal person without looking like a rabid dog baring its teeth in aggression, so he’s resorted to only using smug expressions— though, maybe a sign of aggression wouldn’t be too bad right now) and glanced back at the menu.

“One black coffee.” Ben ordered with finality. He hoped everyone else in the building recognized the sheer manliness of drinking his coffee without any of the added sugars or creams that your usual cuck may want. The barista simply wrote down his order without reaction, and Jordan was far too flustered looking over the menu to even notice. They were the only people in the tiny cafe.

Jordan was caught by surprise when the barista had initially interrupted their titillating game, and was still reeling as she waited on his order. He couldn’t believe this new side of himself— reduced to a mess after some simple ministrations from Ben’s toesie-woesies to his own. Ben’s wonderful, glorious—

“Sir? Are you going to order something?” The barista interrupted his quickly spiralling thoughts, her impatience now evident in her voice.

“Uh, right. Yes” Jordan cleared his throat, regaining some semblance of his smoother, more professional self. He cannot let himself slip like that in public again. “I’ll have the Blueberry Lives Matter Smoothie, please.” The barista smiled at the righteous humor of the drink and nodded before asking the pair for their names, despite being the first and only patrons that week. She turned and began to make the drinks, revealing the back of her t-shirt which declared in large, papyrus font, “BUILD THE WALL!”

Comforted by the patently American right wing mantra, Jordan had nearly forgotten about his… activities with the man across from him. That is, until he felt Ben’s expert toes against his own bare skin. It seemed while he was busy ordering his drink, Ben had succeeded in working Jordan’s socks off, quickly reducing the psychologist to short gasping breaths. It was enough to finally make his GoGurt Tube burst its key-lime pie flavored contents. Briefly, dazedly, Jordan wondered why he even shoved a GoGurt Tube down his pants in the first place.


	2. The Reckoning

Ben held steady eye-contact while Jordan recovered from his GoGurt accident. The atmosphere is intense, intimate. The moment was tragically broken, however when Ben’s voice filled the room-- except, it wasn’t his voice. It was his ringtone - a compilation of his most Epic liberal pwns… Jordan could already feel his GoGurt tube reinflate at the sound of his sultry, whining voice doing what it does best; Dominating. Benny boy’s face reddened and his eyes widened. Hastily, the man stood up. Jordan found himself disappointed.

Taking the call, Ben Shapiro walked to the side of the table, still steadily watching Jordan with those sly “Just-made-you-shoot-your-GoGurt-in-your-pants” eyes. It barely registered in his head what the man that only just rubbed him salaciously through his socks was saying, until he clicked off the cell phone and gave Jordy a saddened look. He couldn’t stay here much longer, that much was apparent. 

Jordan nodded understandingly, trying to mask his heartbreak. Ben smirked smexily, once again compensating for his inability to smile like a normal human being. Jordy continued to stare after him longingly as the manlet stepped out of the cafe, greeted by a small crowd of screeching communist liberal justice warriors. The sound of their shrill voices had captured the attention of the sole staff member in the establishment. She glanced over at Jordan before doing a double take. At this point, Jordan had totally forgotten his state; bare feetsies exposed and GoGurt staining the crotch of his pants.

As he crossed his thick thighs over one another in a pathetic attempt at hiding the GoGurt leaking from his groin in plentiful amounts, his ass cheeks made a distinctive squeaking noise against the now-GoGurt covered seat, wet against his protruding rear. How embarrassing. The waitress looked down in disgust, her eyes caught on the bare toesies that flexed and wriggled with the oncoming anxiety of being caught in the act. Eventually, she spoke up, her voice tainted with a poisonous tone, “We don’t serve your kind in this establishment,” came the deeply southern hiss, Jordan simply raised a brow. 

“Well,” he stood up, dusting himself off despite the ever-growing creamy white stain that found itself covering the majority of his crotch, “I need to go clean my room anyways.” He turned to the door, and before he finally exited the anti-psychiatry establishment, he glanced over his shoulder and spat “So fuck you.” It was deeply epic.

He walked out to the same screaming as Ben had, except this time it quickly died down to a stunned silence. Every vile liberal eye was drawn to the sopping wet stain on Jordan’s pants. In a way, this exhilarated him and only granted him further confidence and he pushed past the jealous crowd of feminists. For the first time since his encounter with Ben, Jordan glanced at his phone. Shit. He had to see his divorce lawyer now. The pep in his step had disappeared as all at once he was reminded of his situation. His beautiful wife cucked him, and he had to deal with the consequences. All the power and self confidence from his steamy encounter with the one and only liberal pwner Ben Shapiro had began to slowly drain.

With his head down, his crotch calcified over like an eye cyst, and his depression once again in full swing, Jordan shakily shoved his hand in his pocket, the slick wetness from the previous encounter seeping even into the fabric there as he pulled out a thin, definitely stained slip of paper. In small, black text read the address to where he was supposedly meeting the lawyer in question… interestingly enough, it didn’t appear to be an office building, but rather a private residency. Good Ol Jordy couldn’t help but raise a brow. He quickly entered the address into google maps, his sticky, gogurt-covered fingers tapping on the screen with what could easily be described as clopping noises. With the (rather interesting) house brought up on his phone, he quickly called an Uber. As he always does, and always has, given that he doesn’t have a drivers license.

It didn’t take long for a car to pull up to the sidewalk where he stood. The driver couldn’t miss him, considering Jordan’s epic status as a modern day philosopher and the fact that all other pedestrians were making a point to keep a 6,669 foot radius from Ol’ Yoghurt Crotch. Jordan entered the back seat of the white 2007 Honda Civic. There was a rhythmic clapping from his cheeks (the naughty cheeks) as he entered, punctuated by a weak squelch as his sopping wet bubble butt met the pristine fabric of the car seat. Just as the divorcee was beginning to get comfortable, he finally caught sight of his driver. Jordan narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the long mop of dyed pink hair. Looks like an SJW. The ride began innocently enough, until the Uber-er pulled out a massive blunt with their incredibly muscular arm, “Papa smoke.” they grunted simply yet with such a strong conviction that all at once, Jordan understood. The Uber driver took a sip of the weed, eyes narrowed as they spotted Jordy’s old, disheveled face in the car mirror, he looked frail and unshaven and became even more so under the scrutinizing, big-dicked, powerful gaze, “Are ya winning, son?” Jordan knew the answer was no. He didn’t say a word, and for a moment that was enough. 

Jordan exited the car in silence and a newer, humbler man. The house before him seemed to loosely match the image provided by [REDACTED DUE TO COPYRIGHT], except in person it seemed much more… ominous. The absolute absence of any vehicles, or any human presence whatsoever, was unnerving. Nevertheless, shaking in his tiny, miniscule baby shoes (worn), Jordan Peterson pressed on. The door was slightly ajar, so there was no need to knock. Inside, the house was dark with the exception of the dimly lit hallway that seemed to lead to a stairway downwards, the surrounding walls and rooms shrouded in complete inky blackness. The psychologist was tense, his perfect dick-sucking throat constricted nervously, but he knew he couldn’t go back. He had a divorce to file. Beads of sweat welled at his forehead as he headed towards the stairwell at the end of the hallway, and he could’ve sworn he saw something skitter past his feet as he took the first step down into what he could only assume to be a basement of some sort- and in that moment, he felt a hand grab him, twisting at his wrist. Violently. Pulling him feverishly down the stairs, and just as Jordan was about to scream-

“Bro don’t scream. What are you, some kinda SJW snowflake? God, this is not epic of you,” Immediately, Jordan’s eyeballs almost popped out of his skull and his limp dick just nearly flew into orbit at that familiar, shrill, incredibly fuckable voice. In his moment of shock, he was pulled into a room that was surprisingly lit in all four corners, and he could hear the slam of a door behind them. Slowly coming back to reality, he began to take in the room around him - it was most certainly a mancave, decked out with a TV, pictures of “lewd” anime girls, a poopsock or two, multiple beanie bags and a clearly unstable table. The scent of the poopsocks wafted throughout the room, fermented by the clear implication of piss and cum on the walls and floor. This wasn’t just a mancave, but a Cum Dungeon. Jordan was mortified, until he allowed his eyes to make contact with the manlet he craved. The one that was… apparently his lawyer?

“W-Who’s house is this?” Jordan managed out, a quiet mutter. Very beta of him, Shapiro couldn’t help but think. He allowed a smirk to play across his lips, if only he knew how to smile like a regular human.

“My friend, my good pal, Alex,”

“Alex…?”

Ben Shapiro inhaled sharply, “Jones.” The psychologist’s eyes widened at that. 

“WHO IS IN MY LAIR?” Rasped a loud, booming voice, completely startling poor Jordy. “I SMELL SOY.” Jordan grew more and more fearful.

“My client!” Called back Ben, briefly breaking his intimidating stare to glance back towards a corner of the room so inky black that it seemed to be slowly swallowing the room. Belatedly, Jordan realized this to be the strongest source of the Cum Dungeon’s rank musk. In a way, it made sense that this was the Infowars headquarters, if not marked by the various paraphernalia then surely the poopsocks should have made it apparent. Unfortunately, this did nothing to slow Jordan’s quickly beating heart, and hearing his dear Benny speak his oh-so desirable chipmunk voice with such familiarity to Alex Jones’ Corner added a soft ache of jealousy. “Don’t mind Alex, he just gets like that when he’s horny.” Ben reassured, his gaze back to that familiar pwnage state. Seeing it when Benny destroys epic liberals on youtube is one thing, but in person? And to be personally directed at Jordan himself? It was undoubtedly the end of this particular pair of pants’ life, as on top of the now crystalized key lime GoGurt, Jordan’s omega fluids were now making a further mess of his ratty boxers and daisy dukes.

As his pants were soaked with his flowing omega juices, the sweet sap of his boy pussy, self-lubricated and ready for Ben Shapiro’s hypothetical hard, red knot, he realized he was being distracted from the situation at hand by the extremely handsome manlet before him. He was here to file a divorce, and that was final. As if reading his thoughts, Benny boy smirked smugly, radiating an aura of pure Alpha Energies, “Let’s lawyer.”

Soon enough, the two were sitting at Benny’s messy desk, a variety of legal papers spread out, slightly stained by the leftover poopsock residue. Alex Jones’ heavy breathing was an oppressive ambience over the already disgusting room.

“Doctor Jordan Peterson?” Ben chimed, looking over some fucking document. Jordy hesitantly nodded before clearing his throat phlegm,

“Psychologist, actually.” He clarified, “I’m what some would call a modern day philosopher.” Ben’s eyes immediately widened, his mouth twitching into what may be described as an OWO face.

The lawyer reached over the table, hastily grabbing at JBP’s wrinkly, paper-like, crusted over in sticky gogurt and other unidentified fluids, hands. If Ben Shapiro was capable of an expression other than smugness, it was in this moment. His eyes were pleading, “Please help me.”


End file.
